don't speak against the sun
by sablize
Summary: Peter Pettigrew often wondered why, exactly, he had been sorted into Gryffindor.


**EDIT:** For those who want to know, the title means 'don't argue what is obviously wrong,' the wrong thing being Peter betraying his friends, thus he feels guilty. I don't know. Interpret it however you like.

**Spoilers:** Book 3, I guess

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing!

**Author's Notes:** It was between this and another Descent fic, but I went with this. I wrote this for a contest before I knew the prompt, and it ended up not being the right prompt anyways, so I'm posting it here instead. Hope you all enjoy(: And yes, I really like Latin okay.

_adversus solem ne loquitor_

don't speak against the sun

—

Peter Pettigrew often wondered why, exactly, he had been sorted into Gryffindor.

It was a cold, moonless night when the Death Eaters assaulted him. Pitted four against one, he quickly surrendered his wand and went with them quietly. Maybe James or Sirius could've fought them off, but Peter always _was_ the cowardly one, and at that moment was intent only on keeping his life for as long as possible.

"The Dark Lord will be pleased to see you," one of the Death Eaters hissed into his ear. "You are _very_ important to our Lord, Mister Pettigrew."

Peter trembled and said nothing.

—

The Dark Lord—as he asked to be called—promised him riches, fame. Anything and everything Peter could ever want, wrapped up in a neat little package with a gaudy bow and placed on the table in front of him (metaphorically, of course). He _had_ always been one to look for greener pastures. Maybe this was his destiny, his calling. Well, maybe.

He received the Mark anyways. It burned his skin like fire but it felt like a promise, a promise that his dreams would come true (and maybe he wasn't a Gryffindor at all, because surely no one in Gryffindor had as weak a heart as he did) and all he had to do was betray his friends.

_Easier said than done_—_but wasn't everything?_

—

First: sow the doubt.

Sooner or later, the Potters would figure out that _someone_ was betraying them. The blame would never lie with Sirius; he was too close to them, too loyal and too brave to fall prey to the same promises that had ruined Peter himself.

So he went for Remus instead—who had always looked down on him anyways, he reasoned, and who luckily wasn't seeing much of the Potters anymore and thus was an easy target. Peter spun tales of his suspicions to Sirius and James. After a time, he could see it taking its toll; brows wrinkled in doubt, anxious faces, whispered words.

Finally, with a, "I think you may be right," he had Sirius, hook, line, and sinker. He felt no shadow of guilt as he walked home that day, smile bright like the sun though the real thing wasn't shining. He could practically see the piles of money that would soon be in his Gringott's vault, provided all else went well.

Strike one.

_Well, put a tally on my chart._

—

Doubt had wormed its way into the Potters' minds, thank heavens. They were to go into hiding. The only thing they needed was a Secret-Keeper and without Remus, who had been unknowingly excluded, it was between Sirius and Peter.

The best part about this step was that Peter didn't have to do anything. Sirius proposed the perfect plan: Peter was to be the Secret-Keeper, because who would ever suspect him? No one, that's who, and that was what had gotten him this far.

As he left, however, the tiniest flicker of guilt blossomed in his chest. By the time he made it safely to his house, he was on the verge of tears.

_How could you betray your friends like this, Peter? How? How could you?_

He quaked with fear as he was placed in front of the Dark Lord that night. He gave his news, and the guilt was extinguished like a candle flame as the prospect of riches and fame drew closer to his fingertips.

Strike number two.

—

Giving away their location was almost _too_ easy.

But when he went to the Potters' later that awful, awful Halloween night, all his dreams were crushed at the state of the house with its entire top floor blown to bits. The wind stilled and all that could be heard was the faint cry of a baby.

He reached the bedroom and the second he saw baby Harry's tiny face, still wailing in the crib, he knew everything had failed. So Peter picked up the bone-white wand laying amongst the rubble and fled, tears falling unchecked down his cheeks as he thought of the depths to which his weak little heart would sink just to get a little glory.

The meeting with Sirius a few days later was partially accidental and partially because Peter just wanted it to _end_. Whatever his former friend was planning for him, he probably deserved it—though this still didn't mean he was willing to give up his life for it.

So he threw around the accusations for show, pretended to take the spell and cut off his own finger as he blasted the street behind him. Then, as Sirius screamed and laughed in equal measure as he was dragged away, Peter trembled in dark fingers of shadow and wished he could be someone, anyone else. Preferably someone who wouldn't betray his friends (especially not _all of them_, but he tried not to think of that).

Strike three.

He never wanted it to end this way.


End file.
